It's easy to look back on some small successes and start to feel pretty full of yourself.
Fortunately life has a way of knocking us back down--in the best possible way.
Case in point: I took a long bike ride and decided to cap it off with a decent climb before heading home. As hills go the one I chose is neither long nor particularly steep, but is tough enough that I rode by a few people who were forced to walk their bikes uphill.

(While I'm not particularly proud to admit it, passing people always provides a little ego boost. I'm even less proud to admit that I sometimes speed up just as I pass people so it appears I'm really fast.)
As I reached the top a lady working in her garden looked up. "That's ... a ... tough climb," I said, gasping out the words between breaths.
"It sure is," she said. "I'm glad my driveway is a little ways down the hill. When you're in your 70s it's nice not to have to ride as far."
I stopped and looked at her. "You ride your bike up this hill?"
She smiled, noticing my surprised look. "You can do anything you put your mind to," she said. "Just stay active and when you're my age I'm sure you will still be able to ride up this hill."
I told her that was good advice. She told me to be careful on the way back down.
When I went back by the people still walking their bikes up the hill I grimaced--not because they were struggling but because my ego balloon was now completely burst.
A few days later I had just turned to ride up a longer, steeper climb when I caught up to a group of Mennonite kids on their bikes. I said hello and started to ride past.
They all pedaled faster to keep up with me. "That's a cool bike," one said. "Is it really light?"
"Why not?" I thought, changing my mind about chatting. I stopped and let them check out my bike. They took turns lifting it, running through the gears, and playing with the quick-release wheels. (Unlike the world-weary air some kids put on, these kids didn't hesitate to let their fascination show. Just like the way people sometimes act tough in order not to show fear, people sometimes act unimpressed in order not to seem less worldly--but not these kids. They were without affect or pretense. It was pretty cool.)
Eventually I got back on my bike and started up the hill. Some of them rode with me. I slowed to a steadier pace and thought, "Heavy bikes, single gears, young kids--this won't last long."
Wrong. A quarter of a mile later they were all still with me. A half a mile later many were still with me. Almost a mile in and a few still hung in.
Near the top where the road gets much steeper I glanced around. The three boys who still kept pace looked strong, breathing heavily but in no way struggling. One even gave me a big smile. I smiled back and did my best to look like I wasn't hurting.
When we got to the top one of the boys said, "Hey, want to go back down and ride up again?" I said that sounded like a lot of fun but I was planning to ride to the next town before turning for home. (Inside I was thinking that sounded like zero fun.)
So they waved and I rode off, nicely stuffed with yet another huge slice of humble pie, vowing to train a little harder.
No matter how accomplished you are--and I'm far from a strong cyclist, but you get the point--there is always someone better. There's always someone smarter, faster, wittier, more decisive, more skilled ... there is always someone.
But don't let that depress or defeat you: use it as motivation. Every successful person I know is also (if only in private) surprisingly humble about his or her talents. They all know they can be and do better.
That's why humility is so important to achieving lasting success. The day you think you've arrived is the day you stop trying to improve... and is the day when your talents start fading.
If you want the person you are tomorrow to be better than the person you are today, humble pie is the one dish you should never skip.